


Never To Rule Over Me

by SisterAmell



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Budding Love, F/M, Mages and Templars, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterAmell/pseuds/SisterAmell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dagmara Trevelyan was instantly on guard when she met the former Templar in command of the Inquisition's forces. Having suffered at the hands of Templars during her time at the Circle of Magi, she learned to see the flaming sword of the Order as a threat. But it has been several weeks since she was drafted into the Inquisition - a group outside of the Mage/Templar war that is trying to restore peace in a world gone mad - and she is finding that the ex-Templar Commander is not what she expected. </p><p>Despite their occasional clashes, Dagmara and Cullen are spending more and more time together. They are traversing a path that both know is unwise and yet neither want to turn back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once We Were

 

The Templars. Tall and proud, solemn as a stone carving, possessed only of duty. And that harsh gaze – oh, Dagmara knew it well! Scrutinizing. Judging. Warning. The cold eyes that _watched_...

Cullen watched, as the rest had. He bore the intimidating air of his brethren and the disciplined visage that only a Templar could perfect. Yet when he spoke to Dagmara it was as an equal. He did not patronize or mock, ignore her, dismiss her opinions, or cast aspersions. He, as much as Cassandra, Leliana, or Josephine, looked to her for input. She was a Mage bearing an unknown power, and yet the Commander neither hated nor feared her. His Templar's gaze was firm, but there was compassion behind it.

When the Inquisition advisers were not holed up in the war room poring over strategies, the Commander was out in the cold alongside his men. His regal armour seemed to gleam brighter than the rest, accented by the luxurious fur of his mantle that spilled over the shoulders of his cloak. In the white sunlight of the Frostback Mountains Cullen trained tirelessly. Dagmara could often hear his rich, powerful voice bellowing instructions like a lion to his pride, encouraging the troops, directing young and old to hone the skills that would keep them alive. He led them like a stern but loving father; there was such fondness in his expression when he spoke to the soldiers.

As weeks passed, Dagmara found Ser Cullen to be an increasingly comforting presence. Cassandra had complete faith in his abilities and his character, and he'd certainly earned the love of the troops. Though he could not be described as a friendly man, he bore no conceit and practised no unkindness. Dagmara came to realise that the Commander's almost brusque manner was merely a shield for his lack of social ease, learned through years of self-reliance. It was honest – refreshing, in fact. To the Lady Trevelyan, whose childhood had been spent among sweetly smiling nobles with hearts full of disdain, Cullen's straightforwardness was rather appreciated.

It was not the only aspect of him that Dagmara had come to appreciate. There were nights when her thoughts would drift while she lay upon her bed, and Cullen's face would come to mind. There was no denying that he was a handsome man – his rugged set jaw and unruly curls were quite striking, and he bore an impressive warrior's physique – but it had been so long since Dagmara had entertained the idea of physical attraction. For a time she had thought herself incapable of romantic emotion. The night her virginity was stolen from her, she ceased _wanting_. It was a strange feeling that rose unbidden inside her when she saw Cullen's face, but it was not unpleasant. Warmth. Wonder. A flutter of anticipation. A rising _want_.

The growing admiration that Dagmara Trevelyan felt for her Commander was brought to a dizzying level when she realised, one evening, as Cullen faced her across the war table during a council session, that the look in his eyes was no longer one of a Templar seeing a Mage. She could feel his gaze prickling on her skin as she attempted to focus on the map, nodding at Josephine's diplomatic report but not hearing a word of it. When Dagmara risked a brief flicker of a glance, she found Cullen watching her. Golden light played across his features, glinting in his eyes. The scar along his upper lip was curved in the faint trappings of an unintentional smile.

“...if you would be so kind as to arrange that, Commander Cullen.” Lady Montilyet's voice interrupted the moment.

Cullen blinked. “I'm sorry, what?” He looked around at his fellow advisors. “I... forgive me. Yes, I'll do so at once.” His hand shot to the back of his neck in embarrassment as the war room fell silent.

Dagmara averted her eyes, hoping to ease his discomfort. However, Josephine and Leliana were not so merciful.

“You have something else on your mind, Commander?” cooed the Spymaster, smirking mischievously. “Or, perhaps, some _one_?”

“What a thing to suggest,” Josephine exclaimed, though her smile was no less impish. “The Commander is surely tired from a long day of training recruits, that is all.”

Cullen flushed a shade darker. With a nervous cough, he said: “If we could return to the task at hand? It is late and the Herald's leaves for Therinfall Redoubt in the morning. I'm sure she has other matters to attend.”

“Yes, of course,” Leliana responded. “I do believe we were done here, anyway.” She exchanged a glance with the Ambassador. “Josephine and I have some... paperwork to do. Don't we, Josie?”

“Oh, why, yes!” Josephine swiftly picked up on the hint. “We should take our leave.”

Dagmara was cringing inwardly at her advisors' transparent attempts to manoeuvre the situation. None of it was so blatant as what Leliana said next, however:

“Commander, why don't you escort the Lady Herald to her lodgings?”

Cullen glared at her across the war table. “I hardly think she needs-”

“Chivalry is a dying art,” Josephine pointed out with a flourish of her quill. “It would befit the Inquisition to set the example in such conduct.”

“And what if something were to happen to her?” added Leliana. “We can't take any risks with the Herald's life, can we?”

Dagmara barely managed to hold back from rolling her eyes. Eager to be away from this ridiculous game, she gave a bow of her head and moved towards the door. “It's really not necessary. I'll just be going...”

“Lady Trevelyan!” Cullen rushed – a little too loudly. When all three women stopped in alarm, he cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “I... uh... would be happy to walk you safely to your cabin.”

Ignoring the triumphant grins and girlish fidgeting that had broken out beside her, Dagmara sighed in resignation. “Thank you, Commander. That is very kind of you.”

She shot the meddling advisors a withering look on her way out. Setting a brisk pace, she marched through the Chantry hallway with a flutter in the pit of her stomach. She felt uncharacteristically nervous. Behind her, she heard Cullen catch up and proceed to match her gait. Dagmara set her jaw tightly. As the two of them stepped out of the building and into the snowy night, silence hung heavily in the air. They both knew that they had little over three minutes before they would reach the door and part ways, and that they would not be seeing one another again for many days. Somehow that knowledge only served to deepen the void of conversation. They walked with a clear two feet of distance between them, looking off in separate directions.

Dagmara was not a shy woman in the traditional sense of the word; she had a secure view of herself and the world around her, and possessed both a sharp mind and a smooth tongue. The unsettled state in which she currently found herself was very unusual for her. For the first time in a very long time she did not know the direction of her own heart. With the weight of the mysterious mark on her and the daunting task of rallying the Mages and Templars against the breach, the Herald's personal desires seemed irrelevant. She could not afford to pursue them. And so she walked without a word, keeping her gaze firmly away from the Commander, trying to deny the knowledge that she would miss him in the days ahead.

They had almost made it to the cabin when Cullen suddenly decided to speak.

“I must ask... Why did you choose to approach the Templars?”

They slowed and came to a stop mid-way up the gravel path. Dagmara met Cullen's gaze.

“I know how you feel about Templars,” he continued, shifting in his armour uncertainly. “You have made your feelings on the matter quite clear.”

She was reminded of one of the first times they had spoken to one another. Cullen had asked – in hindsight, innocently – about the Circle at Ostwick, and she had responded with a scathing comment. The conversation had deteriorated swiftly from that point.

Recalling the exchange, Dagmara felt a twinge of regret. She sighed, her breath casting a white cloud in the cold air before her. “We discussed it – you, Cassandra, Josephine, and I. It wasn't my decision alone.”

“As I recall, you were given the final word. It is, after all, your risk to take.”

“Commander, you shared my opinion. Why are you asking about it now?”

He kneaded the back of his neck with a gloved hand, looking off to one side. “Curiosity, I suppose,” he admitted. “Why you would choose the Order as prospective allies, over your own kind.”

“My own kind?” She could not help but bristle at his unfortunate wording.

“I didn't mean-” he stumbled. “I just meant Mages.”

“You want to know why?” She drew herself up to full stature, feeling suddenly defiant. “Firstly, I have every reason to feel the way I do about the Templars; I bear the scars of their brutality even now. But I can no longer afford to let my hate and my fear affect my decisions. The situation we're facing is more important than me. I chose the Templars because I believe that they are best equipped to deal with the rogue magic of the breach. The Mages...” Her voice grew harsh as she thought of the refugees at Redcliffe, indentured to Tevinter masters – no more free than they had been within the confines of the Circle. “The Mages belong to Alexius now. I wish I could help them, but the breach must be my priority. The _Inquisition_ is my priority.”

Cullen's brow lifted in surprise. He seemed a little embarrassed, like a child being scolded. “Forgive me, I had no idea.”

“Did I help to assuage your suspicions of my intentions, _Knight_ -Commander?” said Dagmara sharply, her silver eyes laced with indignation.

The deliberate use of his former title did not escape Cullen's notice. He changed. The lines of his face turned hard, his nostrils flared. In a raised voice he countered: “In your next breath you would tar me with the same brush? I am not one of them!”

“You see me through a Templar's eyes!”

“ _How dare_ -!” He broke off abruptly, catching sight of a group of civilians who were staring at them. He clenched his fists at his sides and forced his voice to a neutral level. “How dare you presume to tell me what I see. You are not the only one who bears scars, Lady Trevelyan.”

Dagmara knew in her heart that he was right. But she was so worked up, so ready to fight, that she could not offer a reasonable response. Instead, she yanked open the cabin door and stormed inside.

“Herald,” barked Cullen at her back.

“What?” she snapped. A glance over her shoulder found that he was no longer scowling. Instead, his brows were knit together in an almost pained expression.

“Come back safely...”

 


	2. The Dawn Will Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven lies in ruins and the Herald is alone, stranded in the vast Frostback Moutains. With the sheer force of her will, she pushes her failing body ahead. Somewhere out there, her comrades are searching for her - Cullen is searching for her.

It seemed endless. Bombardments of hail and snow that bit deep. The blinding white dark that burned. Taunting voices upon the wind that promised _just a few more steps, just over the next hill, the next camp fire embers will be alive and you can rest._ Lies. There could be no rest in this frozen, inhospitable place. And so Dagmara kept walking. She walked because she had not survived the siege of the Red and the wrath of heaven just to die in this wasteland. Though her feet were numb and her bones screamed in pain, though her senses had been cast into an empty, droning nothingness, she walked.

The blaze of emerald that engulfed her hand – the Anchor, Corypheus had called it – was more vivid than ever. It felt different. What had that creature done to her? Had she truly opened up a rift in the underground caverns of Haven and sucked the demons into the fade with just a gesture? The questions drifted in the back of her mind, secondary to her desperation to survive. Had she the strength or even a source of lyrium, Dagmara could have summoned a fireball with which to warm her trembling body. But it was all she could do just to place one foot in front of the other.

There loomed another crest of hillside, offering hope. The Mage lurched towards it. Her steps were unsteady, slowing, weak. She fought back the fear that there might be nothing over the hill other than endless white as far as the eye could see.  _I will not die here,_ she told herself. To fall, alone, frozen in the snow, to sleep for eternity and never be found... The Maker could not will that. Not after everything. Whether or not she was truly the Herald of Andraste, Dagmara was convinced that her Creator had a purpose for her. The Inquisition needed her. Corypheus was still out there, raising an army of Red Templars and demons to extinguish Thedas' last light of hope. He would be coming after the Inquisition's survivors before long, and everyone that mattered to Dagmara could perish.

_Cullen..._ She did not know why his name rose suddenly to mind. It was almost as if she could hear his voice on the wind, and see his face beyond her blindness. Had he escaped the destruction of Haven? Had he lived? She approached the peak of the hill with unsteady footsteps, clutching her fists to her chest and gasping for breath. She wished that she could see him again. Despite their differences, despite their opposing roots, Dagmara could not think of anyone that she wanted to see more at that moment. It may have been insanity, brought on by her waning consciousness, but she called out for him. His name was stolen from her lips by the cruel winds before it could warm the air and Dagmara was left aching deep inside.

A break in the white. A cluster of wood and ash amidst the snow. She threw herself desperately towards it, praying that it was no illusion. Falling to her knees, sinking into the wet, she snatched at the camp fire remains with rigid fingers. A thick lump rose into her throat as she realised that the embers were still warm. She wanted to lie down in the fleeting comfort of its heat, to rest her cheek upon the ashes and just  _sleep_ . It hurt to keep her eyes open. It hurt to breathe, to be alive.

The howl of the elements was joined by a sudden shout: “There! It's her!”

Dagmara fell forward. In her fading state she imagined Cullen's voice. She lost herself in the cold, exhaling what she believed would be her last breath. Maker, I'm ready...

“Thank the Maker!”

A second voice. Cassandra. Then another. Boots crunching in the snow. The sensation of being lifted by strong arms with gentle care. The touch of warm fingers at her pulse. And then darkness swallowed her.

 

When her senses bled back into reality, it was one by one. Sounds of raised voices, background chatter, and the murmurs of domestic animals filtered in. She could feel her toes, her fingers, and her lips. She could feel the glow of fire warm on her skin. There was a scent of burning wood, the taste of bitter potion behind her tongue. Dagmara stirred and heard the creak of a cot beneath her. She opened her eyes.

The scenery was still dominated by white, but it was no longer empty. She was in camp, surrounded by familiar faces and the forgotten comforts of heat and dryness. Her head was pounding and she could feel a number of injuries protesting at her movement, but she managed to lift her head.

_“And who put you in charge? We need a consensus or we have nothing.”_

_“Please, we must use reason. Without the infrastructure of the Inquisition, we-”_

_“That can't come from nowhere!”_

_“She never said it could!”_

Dagmara looked out across the camp fire and beheld her comrades locked in a heated debate. While Cassandra fought with her usual conviction and Josephine scrambled to restore some dignity to the meeting, Cullen was surprisingly fierce towards the others. After almost biting off the ambassador's head, he swept away with a frustrated growl. His unsteady hands clutched at the pommel of his sword as he paced, tossing his head like a caged animal. The Herald attempted to sit up. Her ribs erupted in pain.

The watchful visage of Mother Giselle appeared at her side, one hand lifted to urge her be still. “Shh,” she whispered. “You need rest.”

Dagmara shifted onto her elbow with a grunt. “They've been at it for hours,” she sighed.

“They have that luxury thanks to you. The enemy could not follow.”

Her gaze took in the rest of the encampment. Hardy tents stood strong against the wind, shielding the villagers from the elements. Small fires adorned the entrances. There was an area for the beasts, where the horses were drinking from a trough and the cargo-hauling brontos were settling in to rest from the day's work. All around were the survivors of Haven – the lucky ones, as well as the injured and dying. The atmosphere was tense, uncertain. Nobody knew where they were headed or what they would do when they arrived. They were lost. They were afraid.

It was Mother Giselle who stepped up where there was a void of direction. Her low, soothing voice crept through the camp, growing stronger with every note, swelling with passion. She sang a familiar tune – one that Andrastians remembered in the darkest of times, yet no one seemed to recall where it had originated. Leliana's Nightingale throat picked up the hymn. A few of the villagers drew closer to the sound, a light in their eyes and a ready song in their heart. Relinquishing his anger to the night, Cullen raised his head, closed his weary eyes, and joined the chorus in earnest.

Dagmara climbed to her feet despite the pain of her injuries and the weakness within her bones. The people were gathering around her. It was to her that they looked; their leader, who had stood against a dark god and given her life to ensure their survival. And she had returned. Those who had not believed that she was Andraste's Herald were now side by side with the faithful, singing with one mighty voice. It was an awe-inspiring sight, as the throngs of Inquisition followers sank down on bended knee and held their fists close to their chests. They no longer feared where they might go or what they should do. They trusted in Dagmara. They believed that the dawn would come.

 


End file.
